in Malmsey long ago, that she was convinced he was the same man. “Ah!” he said, heaving a little sigh, which was yet comfortable enough, “ah! my dear lady, the great days of literature are over. Marlowe, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson—those were the giants. Dryden, Pope, Addison—those were the heroes. All, all are dead now. And whom have they left us? Tennyson, Browning, Carlyle!”—he threw an immense amount of scorn into his voice. “The truth of it is,” he said, pouring himself a glass of wine, “that all our young writers are in the pay of booksellers. They turn out any trash that serves to pay their tailor’s bills. It is an age,” he said, helping himself to hors d’oeuvres, “marked by precious conceits and wild experiments—none of which the Elizabethans would have tolerated for an instant.”
“No, my dear lady,” he continued, passing with approval the turbot au gratin which the waiter exhibited for his sanction, “the great days are over. We live in degenerate times. We must cherish the past; honour those writers—there are still a few left of ’em—who take antiquity for their model and write; not for pay but—” Here Orlando almost shouted “Glawr!” Indeed she could have sworn that she had heard him say the very same things three hundred years ago. The names were different, of course, but the spirit was the same. Nick Greene had not changed, for all